


Freshie

by LadyDrace



Category: Moonlight (TV), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Beta Derek Hale, Blood Drinking, First Meetings, M/M, Sexual Tension, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 03:50:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3194228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDrace/pseuds/LadyDrace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles uses his knowledge of the supernatural world the best way he knows how. </p><p>To get himself a job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Freshie

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the [Sterek Secret Santa](http://stereksecretsanta.tumblr.com/post/106062729941/merry-christmas-nicoshadowboy) for [Nicoshadowboy](http://nicoshadowboy.tumblr.com/). :)
> 
> And yes, it's set in a universe similar to that of the one-season-glory show Moonlight, the term "freshie" borrowed from there, but pretty much everything else deviates from it, so I'm sorry if any Moonlight fans came in vain. 
> 
> Unbetaed.

Discovering the supernatural world is the best thing that ever happened to Stiles. If not for the sheer coolness of it all, then definitely for the extra job opportunities.

 

He goes off to college with a part scholarship, rather than the full ride he'd been aiming for, thanks to Scott getting his sorry ass bitten by a werewolf, and thereby making sure that Stiles spent a lot of his high school study-time running through the woods, trying to ensure his best friend didn't accidentally shred anyone. His dad did put some money aside for college, but after the medical bills that accumulated over the slow-moving nightmare of his mom's illness and eventual death, there just wasn't much left to put aside.

 

So. Stiles needs a job. He puts some feelers out, and asks around, and thanks to a very helpful fellow college student, he's introduced to a vampire named Morten. Following advice from a not entirely dodgy website, he shows up wearing a button-down, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and the top three buttons undone. Morten takes one look at his long neck and pale, veiny wrists, and just like that, Stiles has a job.

 

It's a cushy one. All he has to do is come over two or three times a week, well fed and preferably not too stressed, and let Morten drink roughly a pint of his blood.

 

Some might argue that it's prostitution, but to Stiles it's no different than flipping burgers. He's just making a creature of the night dinner every now and then, and all he has to do is keep stocked up on orange juice and power bars.

 

At first, Morten just drinks from his wrist, but when it dawns on Stiles that he merely does it to be polite, he offers his neck instead in return for a raise. He gets it.

 

Only problem with that is that the bite mark is more difficult to hide on the neck. But having friends in the business now means that he easily tracks down a shop that sells him something in a small, tightly corked vial to smear on the puncture wounds after each feeding. It doesn't heal them completely, but it makes them shrink to something looking mostly like insect bites in less than two hours, and Stiles would fucking patent this shit, if he hadn't been a moron and asked what it was.

 

 _Werewolf drool_.

 

Yeah, no. Stiles will never ask again. Okay, he definitely will, but he will forever wish he hadn't asked this specific time.

 

When Morten offers him a job upgrade, Stiles takes it. And it's a whole new world.

 

Now Stiles is no longer just the snack runner. Now he's a fucking buffet table. Morten and his friends like to party like it's 1699, and apparently it's always a potluck dinner arrangement.

 

They're called freshies, Stiles and his peers, as opposed to the refrigerated blood-bank deliveries that some of the more squeamish or principled vampires insist on sticking to for their meals. But bagged meals or not, it's considered polite for each invited vampire to bring and share their freshie if they have one.

 

Stiles expects to feel cheap for it, being brought along and shared, but the vampires are nothing like the teen wet dream novels of sexual predator vamps who'd just as soon fuck you as eat you. Most of them merely ask politely for a drink, have a taste from his wrist, and then move on. Of course, some freshies have a more personal arrangement with their vampires, but it's more the exception than the norm. And seeing as the freshies are all chosen for their flavor more than anything else, they're all different shapes, sizes, ages and races, with lives of their own outside of the supernatural circles.

 

Another funny thing is that home in little ol' Beacon Hills, supers (as Stiles affectionately likes to call the supernatural creatures) tended to stick to their own. But in the big cities... everyone loves to mingle. So there's a vast variety of non-humans at these parties, and Stiles has never had more fun in his life.

 

The only downside is the name-tag.

 

“It doesn't even have my name on it!” he rants. And it doesn't. All it states is his age, blood type and affiliation. Because he's a walking drink-dispenser. He doesn't mind being food, he'd just really appreciate being a person too.

 

The freshie he's talking to rolls her eyes. “They don't need to know your name. And they don't _want_ to know.”

 

She's a mother of two in her 30s, voluptuous and hawk-nosed, but her wrists are delicate with clearly visible veins, and she smiles brightly as a tiny androgynous vamp comes over for a snack. As is considered polite, she waits until the feeding is done before speaking again. “Besides, you're looking a gift horse in the mouth, here.”

 

“But it's pointless!” Stiles argues. “They can smell my fine-ass vintage anyway, what do I need a demeaning sign for?”

 

“For the non-vamps, dumbass,” she snorts. “Not everyone here has super senses, you know.” And oh. That makes sense.

 

The lady casts a glance over his shoulder and smirks, dimpling her round cheek. “Speaking of, looks like you've accidentally whetted someone's appetite.”

 

He turns around just in time to catch a snarl being directed at the woman, and she lowers her gaze. “Beg your pardon. Didn't mean to offend,” she says in her normal voice, because of course this guy is a super and heard her from across the room.

 

 _Creepy,_ Stiles thinks to himself. _But also hot_ , he adds almost immediately. Because the dude is _smoking_ , in the way that most supers seem to be, no matter what category they belong to. This one stares at Stiles for a long moment before flashing glowing yellow eyes at him. So. A werewolf.

 

“Wait,” Stiles says and turns back to the woman. “ _Appetite?!_ Werewolves don't drink blood, do they?”

 

She snorts at him but doesn't answer, because the tiny vamp is back to ask her if she wouldn't mind following a few of them upstairs. She agrees, and Stiles has to remind himself that it's a not a lewd offer like his frat-party experiences suggest. It's more like the equivalent of grabbing a bag of chips and going to your room.

 

He waves at her as she leaves, and starts looking around for someone else to talk to. He might as well not have bothered, because in the blink of an eye, Mr. Hot Werewolf is there in front of him. Stiles jumps, because _Jesus_ , all of these assholes need to wear bells or something.

 

“Christ, do you guys get a kick out of making the puny humans piss themselves?”

 

“Yes,” Mr. Hot says flatly, and Stiles snorts.

 

“Well, at least you admit it. I admire that in a guy.”

 

Mr. Hot looks like he wants to roll his eyes, but since he doesn't, Stiles tries to dial down the snark.

 

“So. Freshie Stiles at your service, how can I help you? You guys don't drink blood, though, right?”

 

“No.”

 

Stiles waits, but nothing more comes out. “Wow, you're a real chatterbox, huh.”

 

This time Mr. Hot does roll his eyes, and Stiles grins. At least until the guy leans in close. Like kissing-distance close. Stiles is about to ask some big-ass questions when Mr. Hot glances down at his neck.

 

“May I?” he asks, and Stiles needs a confused moment before he remembers the checklist he was given before the gig. Don't stare at the non-humans not wearing a glamour, don't talk about anyone behind their back, because they can most likely hear you, don't lie, be polite, let your boss know when you need food or rest, and if anyone asks to smell you or touch your skin you will allow it.

 

“Uh... yeah, sure,” he says, and tilts his neck. Mr. Hot makes a really interesting growly sound that makes the party move to Stiles' pants, and it definitely doesn't get better when a nose drags across his pulse point, and a warm breath huffs under his ear.

 

“Nice to meet you too,” Stiles croaks, his legs feeling a little gooey as Mr. Hot pulls away.

 

“Excuse me, may I have a drink?” Stiles jerks out of it to find a tall and thin vamp already eyeing his wrist, and he turns to her on automatic.

 

“Of course.”

 

She takes hold of his hand, brushes aside the sweatband-like cuff all the freshies wear to avoid accidental dripping, and she's about to go in for a sip when Mr. Hot makes a noise. And it's not a hot noise like the one from before. This is a noise that would probably make Stiles soil himself if he heard it in a dark alley.

 

The vamp pauses and frowns at Mr. Hot, and Stiles turns his head to glare at him. “ _Dude!_ ” he hisses, and to his credit Mr. Hot looks embarrassed. As he damn well should be. Stiles doesn't feel like getting fired because some stupid fur-face wasn't raised properly.

 

The feeding proceeds, the vamp taking just a few sips like everyone else, thanking Stiles, and pulling the cuff back over his wrist before she leaves. She must have been unnerved, though, because she didn't lick the wounds after her drink to stem the blood, more eager to leave than put the lid back on the jug, so to speak, and the pale gray cuff stains red.

 

“Dammit,” Stiles hisses. “This is all your fault, you know,” he says to Mr. Hot, because it is.

 

“I'm aware. And I'm sorry.”

 

Stiles stares, because while there seem to be certain rules all the supers abide by in order not to offend each other every two seconds, he can't say he's ever heard one of them apologize before.

 

“It's fine,” he says, mollified, rubbing his wrist. Licking the wounds after every taste numbs the bite, as well as wiping off excess blood, but since the vamp was too busy running off, Stiles' wrist aches.

 

Mr. Hot stares at it and shuffles his feet, which makes Stiles blink.

 

“I could... if you'll allow me...” More shuffling, and Stiles is starting to feel a little weirded out. At least until Mr. Hot takes hold of his wrist so gently Stiles barely feels it, and tucks the cuff aside, licking his lips.

 

 _But werewolves don't drink blood!_ Stiles shrieks silently to himself, but then Mr. Hot bends down and... licks. First one broad, wet stripe across both punctures, and then a quick circle around each, leaving the skin clean and glistening with slick wetness. And, _shit_ , there's definitely a party in Stiles' pants now.

 

Mr. Hot carefully tugs the cuff back into place, and drops Stiles' wrist almost reluctantly.

 

“Thanks,” Stiles manages, feeling weak in the knees, as well as tingly around the bites as they heal.

 

It's several long moments before Stiles realizes that they've been staring into each other's eyes completely silently for ages, and he looks down and away, feeling awkward.

 

“I'm Derek,” Mr. Hot blurts suddenly, making Stiles look up again. “Derek Hale.”

 

“Hi.” Stiles knows he sounds a little breathless, but considering that Derek can most likely smell his inconvenient boner, Stiles can't really bring himself to care.

 

“Hi,” Derek says back with a tiny, private smile, and, oh, _wow_ , that whole brooding creature of the night thing just drops right off him in the face of those adorable rodent teeth, and Stiles wants to climb him like a fucking _tree_.

 

Obviously Derek is well aware of it, because his smile widens just enough to make him look kinda hungry, and not even remotely like the kind of hungry Stiles is here for.

 

“Hypothetically,” Stiles blurts. “Would you ever consider dating a human?”

 

Derek raises an eyebrow at him and nods minutely. “Hypothetically. If a werewolf asked you out... would you accept? ...hypothetically,” he repeats, and Stiles is grinning so widely his cheeks hurt. _Aw yeah_.

 

“Hypothetically hell yes! I get off at two am.”

 

He very nearly whimpers when Derek moves in close to whisper: “I can make that happen,” in his ear, and walks off, cool as a goddamn cucumber.

 

Stiles fucking _loves_ his job.

 

End.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to find me on [Tumblr](http://ladydrace.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
